Ugly Sweater Weather NEW Read online

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  RIGHTS

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ugly Sweater Weather

  —

  Jessica Gadziala

  Copyright © 2020 Jessica Gadziala

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review.

  "This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental."

  Cover image design: Jessica Gadziala

  DEDICATION

  Christmas stories go out to my mom. Always.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dea

  Christmas was officially ruined.

  I was not generally known as a dramatic person, so that declaration was really saying something.

  It was ruined.

  "Mom, I already made all the plans!" I insisted, trying not to whine, but also make it clear that canceling last minute was inconvenient at best. At worst, it—as I said—ruined the entire holiday.

  "Deavienne," my mother scolded in that voice that was not her real voice, rather a made-up imitation of Katherine Hepburn's already made-up Transatlantic accent—not actually native to anywhere in particular, but just pretentious enough to make you sound more important than you really were. "Don't you think you are perhaps being a little selfish? Of course, I would need to be with my husband on Christmas. Of all days."

  One would think a mother needed to be with their only child on Christmas. Of all days.

  But this was my mother we were talking about here. She had about all the maternal instincts of a harp seal—very dedicated to the task for the span of twelve days before abandoning the baby that is not yet capable of caring for itself to go and find a new mate.

  Yep.

  That was my mother.

  The eternal mate-chaser.

  Five husbands down.

  And, to be perfectly candid, I didn't think this was the one that was going to stick, either.

  When your husband's original plan was to abandon you entirely and go spend the holiday with his buddies up in Aspen, yeah, you kinda knew exactly how (un)important you were to him in the grand scheme of things.

  In my mother's defense, she was raised by a woman much like herself—perpetually seeking external validation in the form of a man's appreciation of her outward attributes as well as her willingness to hop into bed quickly.

  My grandmother had been the one to sign the waiver to allow my mother to marry off to a much older man at the age of sixteen. Likely, I would think, so she herself could hit the dating pool once again without a young, pretty daughter around reminding the men what other kind of options there were out there.

  That marriage had lasted all of eight months, leaving my mother on the market again at seventeen.

  I was a product of a fling between her first and second husbands. I comforted myself sometimes with the knowledge that at least my mother had actually liked my father, even for the span of just a long weekend, rather than simply attached herself to him as a meal ticket and source of compliments to feed her very fragile ego.

  Being the unplanned baby at the ripe old age of eighteen meant that I was simply in her way a lot of the time. And, of course, in the way of every man in her life as well.

  What was less sexy than a screaming crying kid when you were trying to snag a new lover?

  My childhood saving grace came in the form of an elderly neighbor my mother had when she'd first brought me home. Utterly clueless and having not a stitch of maternal instincts, she found herself strapped with a colicky newborn who did nothing but test out her lungs, something that eventually drew the pitying attention of the neighbor who had birthed nine children of her own, all long grown and gone.

  Tilly was soft in all ways that word can be used. Kind-hearted, even-tempered, patient, and the owner of this reassuringly squishy midsection that made the hugs all the more satisfying.

  Even as my mom moved from place to place—and man to man—Tilly was an ever-present part of my childhood. Picking me up from school. Coming to my talent shows. Helping me with homework. Consoling me on hard days with baked goods. Which never ceased to drive my very image-conscious mother insane. You're going to make her fat, Tilly. How is she ever going to get anywhere in life if she's always stuffing her face?

  Luckily, I inherited my mother's quick metabolism but also Tilly's love of comfort food, making me perfectly average. Not supermodel thin, no, but able to buy a bathing suit without weeping.

  Unluckily, I lost Tilly when I was twelve.

  Which, in retrospect, with her age and constant issues with diabetes and blood pressure, it really was a miracle I got to have her that long. A part of me liked to think that she held on so long because she loved me just as much as I loved her, and she didn't want to leave me—for all intents and purposes—alone in the world.

  Alone is exactly what I was, too.

  I always had a room and food, but that was about all there was. No more hugs. No one to pick me up after school. No comfort on hard days.

  Despite all of this, which must say a hell of a lot about parent-child innate bonds based on nothing but blood, I loved my mother.

  Even after escaping at eighteen and moving clear across the country to get away from the ever-present, oppressive weight of crippling image-focused people in Los Angeles, settling down in the slightly more internally-focused New York City, I loved her from a distance.

  Adulthood made me capable of seeing her through a different lens, one that showed me that she was a product of her upbringing, that her inability to love me as I wanted to be loved was because no one had loved her like she needed to be loved.

  It was a revelation that made me determined to love her that way.

  Unfortunately, she had proven time and time again that the only way she could accept that love was when it came from a man.

  Still, I tried.

  I tried whenever I could.

  Thanks to Tilly, and then a solid friend-network, great co-workers, and a really fantastic therapist, I was full inside.

  My mother, you could say that her internal well was empty.

  Whenever it didn't cost me to do so, I tried to help fill her up.

  Like when she called me wine-drunk and sobbing to tell me about her newest husband—someone she insisted I refer to as my father and call "Dad" despite only meeting him a handful of times—was abandoning her for the holiday, I went into overdrive. I invited her to the city. I bought a ton of decorations to completely overhaul my apartment. I bought her presents. I planned meals. I bought tickets to various events all around the city.

  I was going to give her the best Christmas she'd ever had.

  Except, of course, now I couldn't do that.

  As it turned out, my stepfather's buddy broke his leg playing racquetball, and had to bow out of Aspen, meaning my stepfather was going to stay home after all.

  Which meant my mothe
r had to bail on me.

  For yet another man.

  I tried to take a deep breath, to push down the unmistakable hurt that welled up.

  Even after ten deep breaths, though, it was still there.

  On the eleventh breath, I decided to try one last time.

  "Well, you could always bring Donald too," I offered, trying to force some enthusiasm into my voice even though Donald was a self-centered, childish, leering creep who I made sure never to be caught alone in a room with.

  "Oh, Deavienne, please," she scoffed, and in my mind I could see her raking a hand through her honey-blonde hair with perfectly rounded light pink gel nails, her pear-shaped diamond ring glittering in the light. "Donald would have no interest in staying in that shoebox you insist on calling an apartment."

  Admittedly, my apartment was not really meant to hold three people. But for the holidays, I was willing to brush shoulders if it meant I didn't have to be alone.

  I was alone in the willingness to sacrifice.

  I wasn't surprised by this turn of events.

  But that didn't mean I felt great about it either.

  Blinking back a few useless tears, I took a deep breath, trying to find my happy voice, knowing my mother tended to hang up on my sad one or my—as she called it—"needy" one.

  "Well, I hope the two of you have a Merry Christmas, Mom," I told her, genuinely hoping that it didn't involve Donald drinking too much, passing out, and leaving her utterly alone with nothing else to do herself but drink too much wine and fall asleep on the couch looking at the Christmas tree the maid likely decorated.

  "We will, honey. Talk to you soon."

  Soon would be after the New Year, most likely.

  I was just going to have to be okay with that.

  "Bye, Mom."

  But she was already gone.

  A long sigh escaped me as I placed my phone down on the two-seater half-circle table I dared call my dining space, despite it barely being able to hold two full-sized dinner plates at once. I'd bought two buffalo plaid salad plates to use instead for my mother's visit. She wouldn't eat more than a salad plate portion anyway. In fact, she had a whole stack of salad plates for that very reason, in a gray color since she read once that gray turns people off to the idea of food.

  A shuffling of claws on hardwood followed by the thump of a tail on the floor dragged my attention downward.

  And there he was.

  The ugliest dog in the whole wide world.

  A six-year-old multi-colored pittie mix—supposedly part bulldog, but I mostly saw pittie when I looked at him—with a wandering eye and a severe underbite that made him look like he was perpetually scowling, Lockjaw—clearly named by a previous owner—was my sweetest little monster boy.

  I'd come across him from following a local shelter online that I had once helped do a toy drive with for Christmas. He'd come in a year and a half before, sitting alone in his doggy cell with his back to the door when people came in, utterly defeated, sure he would never know love or home or the comfort of a squishy memory foam bed filled with squeaky toys just dying to be eviscerated.

  Something in me just shattered at the picture, making me throw on a pair of shoes, and walk right down to the shelter to fill out a form and meet him.

  He made up for his outward ugliness by having the warmest little puppy soul, despite being abandoned after two years by his family, despite spending another year and a half in a shelter.

  When I came in to meet him, it was like he knew all his shelter dog dreams were coming true.

  And so they did.

  We left right from there to go down the street to the store where I spent a hefty chunk of my previous paycheck on beds, toys, food, grooming supplies, and a book about dogs since I had never been allowed to have one, and had absolutely no idea how to go about not screwing it up.

  "Hey, Lock. Bad news. Grandma isn't coming for Christmas," I told him. As if he had any idea who Grandma was. My mother never came to my apartment after the first visit, claiming it made her claustrophobic and she much preferred staying in a hotel when she occasionally came to visit. And since Donald didn't like dogs, when I wanted to fly out to visit her, Lock had to stay behind. "Bummer, right?" I said, smiling when he rested his wide head on my knee.

  As I said, my therapist was great.

  But Lock might have actually had her beat.

  No one would ever be half as excited to see me as he was. Or half as sad for me when I was having a hard day, bringing me his favorite toy—sans the squeaker he'd ripped out months before—and pushing it at me until I started laughing.

  "We will still have a good time. Somehow," I added, sighing. "You know what? You wanna go for a—" I paused, his head jerking up, ears pert, knowing what was coming, "walk?" I finished dramatically, watching as he spun himself in ten dizzying circles before turning to make a beeline for the door, smashing his head into the coffee table as he went, but in no way losing any enthusiasm as he sat down beside the door, feet tapping, tail waggling, waiting for me to get on my jacket, hat, and gloves, then strap him into his harness, then layer on his jacket. Santa patterned because, well, only the best for my boy.

  It was hard to hold onto sadness when a dog was wiggling his tail and shaking his heinie as you made your way down the streets loaded with tourists just wanting to get a hint of a New York City Christmas before they headed back home to their real lives.

  With every block, I could feel some of the stress falling away.

  And then, doggy magic.

  "Whoa, Lock, what in the... ohhhh," I said, smiling big because he'd caught sight of his girlfriend, Lillybean, from half a block down. How, I wasn't sure, since Lillybean was a tiny speck of a dog, a tannish yellow-colored chi-poo. Not a designer dog. Just the product of a horny Chihuahua and a nearby mini poodle, producing a litter of somewhat bulgy-eyed, oversized rats who yipped and peed when they were excited.

  I knew Lillybean before her owner even knew her since she had been at the shelter while I helped with the toy drive. She'd been an excitable mess who everyone avoided like the plague because her barks were the sort that made you pull your shoulders up to your ears in an attempt to block some of it out.

  I—and everyone at the shelter—feared no one would ever be able to handle her hyperactive, loud, neurotic self for who she was, worrying she might get adopted out by someone who pitied how unfortunate-looking she was, only to be returned after having spent a day with her.

  Luckily for Lillybean, her owner was the good sort of human. The kind who believed that pets—much like children—were a lifelong commitment. You didn't get to bring one back because it didn't turn out how you wanted it to. You rolled up your sleeves. You tried whatever it took to tame wild behaviors, to encourage positive ones.

  She was a pampered little princess who yipped much less frequently. We often pondered if she was such a handful at the shelter because she realized all along that she was meant to be sleeping on a fuzzy circle bed soft enough for a human, surrounded by rawhide-free bones, drinking out of a doggy water fountain, and dressed in all the latest pup fashions.

  Lock and I had come across Lillybean by complete happenstance one day during our early morning walks around the neighborhood, wanting to get a good chunk of his energy out before I went to work.

  It was the dog equivalent of love-at-first-sight.

  He saw her.

  He stopped in his tracks.

  Time froze.

  Harps played.

  And then all hell broke loose.

  He, usually a very well-behaved walker, lurched forward, pulling his leash out of my grip, barreling down the street, barking like a lunatic.

  Now, I held no false beliefs about pitties.

  They were only as good as their owners.

  Like any other dog.

  But I also understood that many—if not most—people still believed in things like breed-specific aggression.

  And I was sure it didn't help matters that I was running behin
d him screaming out Lockjaw! when many people still thought pitties were capable of locking their jaws when they latched onto prey.

  Luckily for him—and me—when he reached his lady, he dropped down onto his front legs, butt sky high in the air, tail about to wag off his little body, making low little whimpering noises to the love of his whole darn doggy life.

  Lillybean, in true Lillybean fashion, was not nearly as smitten.

  But after regaining his leash, apologizing, and finishing our walk with Lillybean and her human servant, he slowly started whittling away at her ice-pup exterior, even getting a lick and tail wiggle—unheard of!—from her.

  From then on, they were the best of friends.

  And we, the keepers of treats and carriers of potty bags, had little choice but to get to know each other as well as we took long tours around the neighborhood, stopping for sniffs and tree christenings, and even the very occasional hot dog treat. Shared, of course, because they were deeply, deeply in love. Also, Lillybean was too small for a whole one and Lockjaw was far too fat already.

  "I see her, buddy," I agreed, deciding to stay where we were, let them come to us. Lillybean liked to keep you waiting. She made a show of stopping to smell every stationary person's shoes before they finally made their way to us. "There's your girl. Hey, Lillybean. Looking spiffy," I told her, smiling at her absolutely absurd hot pink doggie onesie.

  "What about me? Do I look spiffy too?" her human asked, making my gaze move up to catch sight of a truly horrific sunglass and Santa-hat-wearing llama on his sweater before my gaze found his.

  The man named after the king of Christmas music himself.

  The man who took the tradition of over-the-top Christmasing seriously.

  Also, my best friend in the whole world.

  Crosby.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Crosby